The Road Through Chernobyl

A Land Rover Discovery passes silhouette graffiti, which hints at the story behind the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl, as the Journey of Discovery team explores the exclusion zone.

Team members from the Journey of Discovery walk through the entrance area towards the Chernobyl reactor, in the Ukraine.

The Journey of Discovery stops at a derelict Ferris wheel found en route to the Chernobyl exclusion zone.

A Land Rover Discovery drives towards eerie silhouettes as the Journey of Discovery makes its way through the exclusion zone in Chernobyl, in the Ukraine.

An abandoned toy car is just one of many moving monuments to the life-changing moments caused by the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl.

An abandoned teddy bear is a poignant memory of the effects on the city of Pripyat of the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl.

A sign outside the Chernobyl site warns of the dangers within the exclusion zone, where the Journey of Discovery became the first private vehicle group to explore the area.

One of the team on the Journey of Discovery uses a Geiger counter to pick up radiation levels as the group travels through the exclusion zone in Chernobyl.

Testing for radiation – the Journey of Discovery team uses a Geiger counter to check the levels in the exclusion zone around Chernobyl, in the Ukraine.

The Land Rover Discovery is checked for radiation as it exits the exclusion zone of Chernobyl on the Journey of Discovery.

In the early hours of April 26, 1986, reactor number four at the Chernobyl power plant exploded, setting into motion the world’s worst nuclear disaster. Now, 26 years later, it may be a distant memory for many, but for those on the ground in Ukraine, it remains a chilling reminder of the destructive power of nuclear energy.

Valeriy Zabayaka was one of the plant workers who became a “liquidator,” one of thousands tasked with the awful job of clearing the radioactive disaster zone.

Tall, broad and strapping with a heavy mustache and a handshake that could crush granite, Zabayaka is every inch the iconic Soviet hero. He could have stepped straight out of a propaganda poster, but he’s just an ordinary man who found himself in an extraordinary situation. While his eyes don’t belie the horrors he has seen, his words tell a different story.

“When I heard about the explosion no one told us the radiation level was life-threatening,” Zabayaka tells us. “This was the time of the former Soviet Union and the authorities were hiding the information about the danger from us. The level of radiation where I worked was already very dangerous. I was in a group of 20 and only six of us are still alive. My health is damaged.”

When asked whether he had a choice in becoming a liquidator, he claims he did. But given the choice again, Zabayaka admits he may have taken a different path.

“I was young and Pripyat city in Chernobyl was like the motherland to me,” Zabayaka says. “Today, maybe I would make a different decision, but back then there was only one. When I left after liquidating, though, people I knew well looked at me like a stranger.”

I was given special permission to drive into Chernobyl as part of Land Rover’s Journey of Discovery to China, raising £1 million for the Red Cross. Zabayaka was one of the first Chernobyl residents I met during the trip inside the exclusion zone that surrounds the plant — a facility that is still leaking radiation today.

Before the disaster, Valeriy’s home of Pripyat was a bustling city of 50,000 just 3 kilometers from reactor number four. Living standards were a world above anything the average Soviet citizen could dream of. Facilities and amenities abound, shops were well stocked with nearly impossible-to-buy Western goods. Outside of Moscow’s shops for the elite, for example, Pripyat was the only place in the Soviet Union where Chanel perfume was available.

Wages were over double the national average and life was good. Work was plentiful, and with plans to ultimately build 12 reactors at the plant, it stood as a glittering testament to Soviet technological expertise.

The explosion changed everything.

Today Pripyat is deserted, a desolate, crumbling ghost town that was left in a hurry by a population who only thought they were leaving for a few days. It lies derelict in its entirety in the shadow of the reactor, a testament to all the dreams that were crushed and lives that were lost that fateful day. The town’s dodge cars and Ferris wheel stand frozen in their tracks. A teddy bear sits on the window sill of the town’s kindergarten. Gas masks lie in the empty cots.

It’s like walking the set of a horror movie, except the horror here is very real.

I’m driving the deserted streets in the tracks of people who used these roads to escape the fallout. Lada’s and Moskvitch’s of the Communist Party elite. But hierarchy was no immunity to radiation. I park the LR4 outside the tallest building in town — a formerly swanky hotel.

Ascending the broken and icy steps to the top floor (“the lift is out of order because we didn’t pay last month’s electricity bill,” our guide jokes) is like walking the set of a horror movie, except the horror here is very real. This place is deeply contaminated, but it’s hard to keep in mind as the radioactive contamination is invisible, an insidious influence that remains beyond our sight.

Our guide carries a Geiger counter at all times. It chirrups with excitement when held close to lichen or moss. Holding it to the concrete skeleton of the buildings barely gets a reading. Our safety has been assured, but we’re still donning a protective suit, which like everything else we’re wearing, will be thrown away at the end of the visit. Maybe burned.

As such, looking from the hotel’s once grand roof terrace, the ghost town image disappears. From a distance the buildings below still look slightly rundown, but the overall impression is little different from other poor towns in rural Russia. Even the lack of cars is similar in other small towns dotting the landscape.

Our final stop is next to the reactor, which now sits under a makeshift cover of concrete, steel, lead and metal sheeting. Standing next to one of the most iconic images of the 20th century turns me to ice. I remember the radiation cloud blowing across London in 1986. Now I’m only a few dozen feet from the source.

A guide explains how plans are in place for a better cover — a nuke-proof sarcophagus — to help bring this dreadful chapter in history to some sort of a close. The trouble is, this is the same story that has been coming from here for years — all that seems to change is the deadline which keeps extending, seemingly inexorably, into the future.